“What? You're going to knock off this early? School only ended eight hours ago,” I teased, trying again for normalcy. He didn't respond, but was back moments later, his instrument in a case slung across his back. He flipped the light switch at the end of the hallway and we descended the stairs in silence.

“How did you get in?” he asked and then immediately shook his head and waved the question away. “Never mind. I really don't want to know. However, if on Monday I find that the walls have been spray painted, I'll know who to point the finger at.”

“Paint is not my medium,” I sniffed, offended.

“Oh really? What exactly is your medium?” He locked the door behind us as we stepped out into the night.

“Wood,” I clipped, wondering why I was telling him. Let him think I was a graffitti artist. Who the hell cared. “You do,” a little voice taunted mildly. And I did.

“And what exactly do you do with wood?”

“I carve it.”

“People, bears, totem poles, what?”

“Totem poles?!” I was incredulous. “Is that supposed to be some kind of slam to my ethnicity?”

“Your ethnicity? I thought you told me you weren't Native American.”

“I don't know what the hell I am, but that still sounded like a slam, Sherlock!”

“Why don't you know what you are, Blue? Haven't you ever tried to find out? Maybe that would make you less hostile!” Wilson seemed frustrated. He stomped ahead of me, almost talking to himself. “Absolutely impossible! Having a conversation with you is like trying to converse with a snake! You are vulnerable and tearful one moment and hissing and striking the next. I frankly don't know how to reach you, or even if I want to! I only said totem poles because they are usually carved from wood, all right?” He turned and glared at me.

“Cranky when you stay up past your bedtime, aren't you?” I mumbled.

“See?” he griped, throwing his hands up. “There you go again.” He stopped at his car, his hands on his hips. “I know you are incredibly bright, because when you are not being a smartarse your comments in class are very insightful, and when you ARE being a smartarse you are witty and clever and you make me laugh even when I want to slap you. I know you are either an adrenaline junky or you have more courage than anyone I've ever met, and you know how to unload a weapon. I know you were raised by a man with the name Echohawk. I know you don't know when your real birthday is. I know you have no plans to go to university when you graduate. I know you enjoy being the class clown and making me the butt of your jokes.”

He counted on his fingers. “That's eight things. Oh, and you carve something out of wood. Most likely NOT totem poles, since that seemed to get a reaction out of you. So nine or maybe ten if we count being a smartarse.” He put his hands back on his hips. “I would really like to know more. I don't want to know about the little blackbird who was pushed from the nest. I would like to know something about Blue.” He poked me in the center of my chest, hard, as he said 'Blue.'

“It's a parable,” I whined, rubbing the spot he'd jabbed with his long finger. “My father – Jimmy – used to say I was like a little blackbird, far from home.”

“Eleven things. See? Not so difficult.”

“You're kind of cute when your angry.” I meant to ruffle him, but it came out sounding flirtatious, like something Sparkles, aka Chrissy, would say. I felt stupid and darted a look at him. Luckily, he just rolled his eyes. Funny how you can tell someone is rolling his eyes, even when it's dark and you can barely see them.

Wilson dug into his pockets, feeling in every one. Then he tried his car doors. I could have told him they were all locked, but I wisely remained silent. I suppose that would be twelve things: I can be wise.

“Bollocks!” He pressed his face up against the car window, hands shielding his eyes on either side. “Blast!”

“You have a filthy mouth, Mr. Wilson,” I chided, trying not to laugh. “Isn't saying blast like saying the F word in England?”

“What? No! Bugger, blast and bloody are fairly tame . . . like damn.”

“And bollocks? That sounds downright profane.” It really didn't, but I found I was enjoying myself. “Soon you'll be saying fiddlesticks! I don't think Principal Beckstead would approve.”

“My keys are in the ignition,” Wilson groaned, ignoring me. He straightened and looked down at me soberly. “We're walking, Blue, unless you're willing to admit you have certain skills . . . breaking and entering, perhaps?”

“I don't need skills to break and enter. I just need tools – and I don't have any of them on me,” I retorted flatly. “We could shove your big violin through your car window, though.”

“Always a smartarse,” Wilson turned and began walking toward the road.

“I live about four miles away in that direction,” I offered, hobbling along after him.

“Oh, good. I live six. That means for at least two miles, I will not have to listen to you snipe at me,” Wilson grumbled.

I burst out laughing. He really was cranky.

Chapter Ten

We walked along for several minutes with only the clickety clak of my high-heeled boots to break our silence.

“You'll never make it four miles in those shoes,” Wilson remarked pessimistically.

“I will because I have to,” I retorted calmly.

“A tough girl, eh?”

“Did you have any doubts?”

“None. Although the tears tonight had me wondering. What was that all about?”

“Redemption.” The dark made the truth easy. Wilson stopped walking. I didn't.

“You'll never make it six miles with that violin on your back,” I parrotted, smoothly changing the subject.

“I will because I have to,” he mocked. “And it's a cello, you ninny.” His long strides had him walking beside me again in seconds.

“Don't say ninny. You sound bloody ridiculous.”

“All right then. Don't say bloody. Americans sound foolish when they say bloody. The accent is all wrong.”

Silence.

“What do you mean by redemption?”

I sighed. I knew he would come back to that. Four miles was far too long to evade him, so I thought for a moment, wondering how I could put it into words without telling him what I needed redemption for.

“Have you ever prayed?” I ventured.

“Sure.” Wilson nodded like it was no big deal. He probably prayed morning and night.

“Well. I never have. Not until tonight.”

“And?” Wilson prodded.

“And it felt . . . good.”

I felt Wilson's eyes on me in the dark. We walked in syncopation for several breaths.

“Usually redemption implies rescue – being saved. What were you being saved from?” he inquired, his voice carefully neutral.

“Ugliness.”

Wilson's hand shot out, pulling me to a stop. He searched my face, as if trying to glean the meaning behind my words. “You are many things, Blue Echohawk, I can even name twelve.” He smiled a little. “But ugly isn't one of them.”

His words made me feel funny inside. I was surprised by them. I had assumed he had never noticed me on a physical level. I didn't know if I wanted him to. I just shook my head and shrugged him off and began walking again, answering him as I did.

“I've had a lot of ugly in my life, Wilson. Lately the ugly has gotten to be more than I can take.”

We resumed our steady march through the sleeping street. Boulder City was incredibly quiet. If Vegas was the city that never slept, then Boulder made up for it. It slept like a drunkard on a feather bed. We hadn't even been barked at.

“All right. So that's two more. We're at fourteen. You've had an ugly life, but you're not ugly. And you enjoy praying in darkened hallways in the middle of the night.”

“Yep. I'm fascinating. And that's fifteen.”